


Faramir The Great

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But not his fault, Developing Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, Faramir Saves Aragorn, Gets His Ass Handed To Him, He Is Good In The End, How Do I Tag, M/M, Morgoth Tries To Rise, Post-War of the Ring, Somehow Evil!Aragorn Implied, The Valar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: It had not been known then, and for a long time it had remained a well concealed secret, but the King’s decision had been dictated by an evil force, the likes of which the oldest Gondorians had not been able to recall. The King’s mind had been poisoned with vile thoughts, his keen eyesight dimmed with lies, for he had looked upon the Palantir and he had unwittingly let Morgoth gaze into his own soul.In which I attempt the style of Silmarilion and try to weave a tale about what could have happened if Morgoth had more power...
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Faramir The Great

**Author's Note:**

> So... I have been reading Silmarilion recently, and I had this story in my mind for a small eternity... and it somehow clicked. But not to bore you all with the pompous style, I decided to thread it through with my more modern writing fashion. MermaidSheenaz said it looks better like this, and I have to agree. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_ It came to pass that Gondor was once again a peaceful land. But it had not been so from the beginning of King Elessar’s rule. There had been many wars and many battles fought, numerous people had died and perished, until Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had been victorious at last.  _

_ After he had come back to Minas Tirith to sit upon the throne for good, to rule with a steady and a just hand, his first order had been to make Faramir, son of Denethor, the Prince of Ithilien. As Elessar had decreed, so it had happened, and with the princehood there had come the separation of two friends, for Faramir had taken up a post in North Ithilien, in the land of Emyn Arnen, building a house there and restoring the lands with the help of Legolas Thranduilion, known better as Greenleaf.  _

_ It had not been known then, and for a long time it had remained a well concealed secret, but the King’s decision had been dictated by an evil force, the likes of which the oldest Gondorians had not been able to recall. The King’s mind had been poisoned with vile thoughts, his keen eyesight dimmed with lies, for he had looked upon the Palantir and he had unwittingly let Morgoth gaze into his own soul.  _

_ And with Morgoth, a shadow of his old friend - the terrible Ungoliant - travelled. A seedling of Morgoth’s wrath, so tiny it had gone unnoticed by everyone, had been planted inside Aragorn’s soul, and it had grown freely, nurtured by the hatred towards his enemies and love towards his people. For it had been so that Ungoliant’s darkness had fed on all light, destroying it and dimming it forever, and in the horrible void left by it, Morgoth’s power grew.  _

_ Morgoth had long since wanted to grasp the hallowed power of Isildur’s heir, and he had only been able to do so by getting rid of the Prince, for his eyesight had been keen even then, and his heart pure. _ __

-&-

“Do you wish for more tea?” Faramir’s voice startled him, and Aragorn lifted his head, surprised to discover that night had already fallen around him. Faramir was standing in front of his desk, looking pointedly at the half-empty wooden mug.    
“No, thank you.” Aragorn’s voice sounded tired even to his own ears, but he was determined to finish what he had started at sunset. They had to resume the spring council on the next day, and an opportunity for a free evening would not present itself for a long time yet. 

“What are you working on?” Faramir asked, leaning over the desk curiously, his eyes trying to read Aragorn’s scrawl upside-down. The King huffed, covering the writing with one hand, aware that he was acting like a child and refusing to feel guilty about it.    
“I shall show you once I am done with it,” he declared, aiming for serious, but the grin he was gifted with soon erased all traces of solemnity.    
“I hope this is not another of your crazy decrees!” Faramir drew back, laughing, side-stepping the desk and walking to the little door at the back of the studio. Aragorn scoffed.    
“I’ll have you know that my  _ crazy decree _ about horses and their superiority to dogs had been received with enthusiasm!”    
“Aye!  _ Polite  _ enthusiasm, that is!” Faramir shouted back at him, and Aragorn smirked, looking once more at the parchment on his desk. 

-&-

_ Many months had passed, and during all those, the Prince and the King exchanged letters, inquiring about the wellbeing of their lands and people. But finally, there came a day when the letters had stopped coming from Minas Tirith, and the last ones that had reached Faramir had been so cold and short, his heart had been left bleeding. For it had not only been fealty for his liege that had driven the young Prince, but his deep love for his King, a feeling so great and pure that even the Valar themselves had taken notice of it.  _

_ In the absence of letters and the overwhelming silence coming from the White City, Faramir had taken to visiting Rohan and the fair Lady Eowyn residing there, for he had harboured strong feelings of friendship towards her. They had taken many a counsel together, discussing not only the matters concerning their homes, but also the uncertain situation in Minas Tirith. Soon, she had started to visit Emyn Arnen also, and news of this had swiftly reached the White City. But Aragorn had been unmoved, sitting upon the throne and focusing his thoughts on the darkness, for his soul had been slowly devoured by Morgoth’s shadow.  _

_ So it lasted well into wintertime, until Faramir, led by a strange dream he had received from powers unknown, had finally decided to pay his King a visit. Snows he braved on unattended roads, through ice and winds he had trudged, till at last, the gate stood open before him, the guards welcoming him with deep bows and fear in their eyes.  _

-&-

“Will you come to bed, my King?” Faramir asked from the bedchamber, his voice betraying the lazy state he was in. Aragorn blinked down at the parchment, then rubbed one finger stained with ink, hoping to get rid of the dark blot.    
“In a while…” he muttered, only loud enough to be heard.    
“‘Tis the day! Aragorn ignoring his bed and pouring over work long into the night!” Faramir jokingly said from the other room. The King smiled, hearing a rustle of sheets, then went back to his quill. 

-&-

_ When the Prince entered the citadel, he knew instantly that something foul was at work there. The very air around him felt dark and cold, the walls barren, even if they were decorated with the finest tapestries. People walked around him, but their scared glances were like those of frightened animals.  _

_ Forcing himself to stand tall, Faramir went forward, marching with the single-minded intent to find his King.  _

_ Elessar was in the throne room, his head dropping forwards, his arms splayed to his sides like a dead weight. His hair was long, but it was threaded with gray, and there was no light to him that Faramir had once perceived. Taking a calming breath, the Prince walked on, pausing right before his liege. He could not see anything out of ordinary, save for the gloomy disposition of his King, so he decided to use his gift instead.  _ _ Opening his heart along with his eyes, he looked not at the picture before him, but into the unseen world of spirits and love, and what he saw filled his mind with dread.  _

_ There, on the Golden Throne of Gondor, sat but a shadow of a man. Elessar did not look like himself anymore, so changed was his visage. A dark cloud, the likeness of which Faramir had never before seen in his life, was hanging around him, wrapping him in eternal twilight.  _

_ Stepping carefully, Faramir went forward, until he could kneel in front of his King, one hand tentatively wandering to Aragorn’s wrist, fingers encircling it. Elessar was cold to touch, and little black tendrils stood out against his skin, like veins corrupted with venom. The Prince gasped and drew back, feeling the darkness seeping into him, too.  _ _   
_ _ “My King?” He asked, not daring to speak loudly out of fear of the powers he could awake.  _ _ “Aragorn, will you not welcome your friend after a long journey?”  _

_ But the King remained silent, although he moved a little. Encouraged, Faramir pressed on, but was quickly silenced when his King’s eyes rose and focused on him like two terrible pools of blackness. There was no life in Aragorn’s gaze, and the sight of it was dreadful.  _

_ “My lord,” the Prince said, “ _ _ I am always your humble servant, and I shall do what you command. What are the King’s orders?” _ _ Elessar, however, was silent still, and only a slight grimace on his face showed that he had heard Faramir’s words.  _

_ The hour turned dark and terrifying, and still, Faramir knelt at his King’s feet, hoping to find at least a flicker of his old friend inside the hollow shape in front of him. But, as Elessar remained unmoved, the Prince changed his approach, realizing that no amount of talking could help his liege now. Instead of idle chatter and questions which fell upon deaf ears, Faramir let his open heart guide him, looking into the unknown world of spirits until the whole throne room disappeared from around him. The walls were but smoke and the floor turned to a cloud of mist underneath him.  _

-&-

“By Eru!” Aragorn muttered angrily, helplessly observing a dark stain spreading over the bottom of the parchment he was writing on. The upturned inkwell he had unwittingly knocked over was  glittering mockingly at him. He picked it up and righted it, then looked around for a cloth he could use to minimise the damage. Finding none, he grabbed a box of drying sand and poured a considerable amount of it on the stain, hoping to at least stop the blot from spreading. He was just leaning down to blow off the excess, when suddenly, darkness encompassed him with a quiet sizzle of a dying candle. 

With a sigh, Aragorn stood up gingerly and turned to his bookshelf, blindly seeking another candle. It was well into the night, but he felt compelled to finish what he’d started. When his fingers encountered a block of wax he smiled, grabbing it and quickly returning to his desk. A soft snore could be heard behind him when he went back to writing, and Aragorn grinned, knowing well that Faramir would approve of what he was doing. It was not everyday, after all, that he willingly put a quill to a parchment. 

-&-

_“What are you?” Faramir asked, raising finally, stepping back when the shadows encompassed him. Darkness was everywhere, layered like mist and climbing the walls around him like monstrous vines._ _The King rose also, though crooked he stood, his posture broken and unsteady, looking like a puppet hanging on its last strings._ _  
__“Foolish Stranger,” a voice mocked, its sound shivery and dreadful, bringing to mind the clash of swords during a long battle. It echoed in the room, and though it was deceptively loud and clear, Faramir could not find a trace of his friend in it. His body gave a shudder and he stepped back, gripping his sword with might._

_ In that hour, the Prince understood that the power he was battling with was more than he could ever anticipate.  _

_ Darkness shifted and the gloom of unnatural night moved forward as the King descended from the throne. His legs seemed crooked and his hands almost floated at his sides, and when one arm arose, Faramir felt a touch deep within him, like icy fingers squeezing his heart. He released his sword and fell on the flagstone, a cry escaping him more of fright than of pain.  _

_ “My King!” He cried in shock, but a dull laughter only was his answer as Elessar walked closer. The Prince tried to find a way out of his predicament, and in his attempts, he remembered a day long forgotten.  _

_ When he had been a child only, Gandalf the Gray, known to others also as Mithrandir, had been his tutor. Many hours they had spent in the library, pouring over old tomes and dusty parchments, until one day, Gandalf had told him about his extraordinary gift. The full usage of it required not only great strength, but also unprecedented energy, pure and eternal like the Song of Ilúvatar.  _

_ Bent on the cold floor, gripping at his chest to alleviate whatever spell the Shadow had put on him, Faramir felt such an energy rising in him. It was not the Song, for its source came from within him, and it was as eternal as Eru himself. It was love for Aragorn, for his King and friend, for the one who had healed him and brought him back from his unending wandering behind the veil.  _

_ Feeling his power rising, the Prince straightened, looking up with a gasp of terrible wonder, for he could see Elessar floating in the air in front of him. Aragorn’s skin turned black and his eyes were of silver, and the mist wrapped around him seemed to spread in tendrils towards Faramir as if they wanted to grasp and consume him also.  _

_ “Know you not, unworthy creature, whom you see?” The voice sounded again, ten times as horrible and infinitely more menacing, and as the Prince watched, blood seemed to gather under the King, following him like a dreadful river among the stones on the floor. _

_ “Tell me your name and leave this place!” Faramir demanded, raising also, turning his head up proudly, for he felt his love towards his king gathering and giving him strength. A small light, bright but unsignificantly tiny, like a grain of sand in a desert, settled in his heart and warred with the chill gripping him.  _

_ The vision laughed, gifting him with a grin full of sharp teeth, before those two silvery eyes focused on him again.  _ _   
_ _ “I am Melkor, named Morgoth, and I shall rule this world again as I have ruled it before!”  _ _   
_ _ “Never!” Faramir cried, feeling courage surging within him.  _ _   
_ _ “And who are you to deny me my claim to the throne?” Morgoth asked, darting forward. In a blink of an eye, the shadows slithered around Faramir, trapping the Prince in eternal night. A laughter accompanied it, foul and horrible, grating on his nerves and shattering his mind.  _

_ But the Prince persevered, driven by his love, and he felt heat rising within him, the light slowly growing bigger, until it pushed the darkness away and reached out to Morgoth, threatening him instead. In the brightness of it, so blinding it outgrew the night for a moment, Faramir could clearly see the beloved eyes of his friend and King, and the frightened recognition that settled within them when Elessar realized what had come to pass.  _

_ Before Faramir’s light could kill the darkness within him completely, for after a great struggle only a small crumb of it remained still, Aragorn wrenched himself away with a mighty cry. Exhausted after the fight, the Prince could not hold him fast enough, and the King stumbled away, led not by his own wits but by the Shadow still embedded in his heart. _

_ Thus, Morgoth attempted an escape, commandeering Brego, a horse that belonged to the King, and riding off through the fields, hoping to get far enough to save himself.  _

_ But the Prince was adamant, and his courage was as great as his love, and so he ran to the stables and jumped on his horse, and the mighty Hasufel soon carried him after the King.  _

-&-

“Why are you still up?” A sleepy voice asked, before two arms wrapped around his shoulders. Aragorn smiled when Faramir stifled a yawn in his neck, his lips soon finding their favorite spot right behind Aragorn’s ear.    
“I meant to finish this,” the King answered simply, nodding at the parchment. It was the third sheet already, and he was still not done with telling the story.

There was a sigh fanning over his collarbone, a warmth spreading over his skin and sneaking its way underneath his shirt.    
“You can finish it tomorrow, love. Come to bed… ‘Tis after midnight already,” Faramir mumbled into his shoulder, his voice slurred. 

Aragorn knew well that, once awoken, his Prince would not go back to sleep without him. He had long since claimed that the bed was too cold and too unfriendly when he woke up in it alone, and though Aragorn suspected those claims to be for the benefit of having him back in Faramir’s arms, he could not deny the glow they filled him with.    
“Very well,” he conceded at last, blowing out the candle and raising, turning around just to be met with a soft kiss. “Come, dear heart, let us rest finally.” 

-&-

_ The winter was harsh and the snow covered the lands far and wide. Morgoth could not find any clear path and, being weakened after the battle with the Prince, he left it to the horse to steer them. Brego was not a usual horse, however, for he had seen many battles and lived through great grief, from which none other than Elessar had saved him. And so the steed, led by powers well beyond his understanding, turned them to Ithilien, eager to help his master even when Aragorn was not aware of his surroundings.  _

_ Long they rode, Morgoth on Brego, and Faramir on Hasufel, chasing the shadow over freshly fallen snow, until at last they arrived at the line of the forest near Emyn Arnen.  _

_ The Prince jumped off Hasufel and treaded carefully through whitened undergrowth, noticing a path not unlike a trail of someone crawling in snow. Brego stood nearby, signs of commotion all around him and his saddle empty. The trail led from him and into the forest, and Faramir left Hasufel with his friend and walked on alone, one hand on his sword, ready to use it if needed be.  _

_ With careful steps, he arrived finally in a little clearing where the trail ended. Winter did not seem to reach it, for the grass was still green and lush, and flowers were blooming all around. The sight of it was so strange, that Faramir paused in stunned silence, taking it in with wide eyes. It was not until his gaze fell on a dark shape in the middle of it that he started to move again, this time with purpose, recognizing his friend lying in a curled heap on the ground.  _

_ “Aragorn!” He cried, falling on his knees next to his King, but the man was silent. He was pale and unmoving, and if it hadn’t been for his shallow breathing, Faramir would have thought him dead. Darkness was still upon him, and Faramir tried to squash it, but it proved to be beyond his skill. Feeling helpless, he gathered his friend into his arms and weeped, letting silent tears fall down on Aragorn’s face.  _

_ It was then that a great light appeared before them, and Faramir looked up to see a lady dressed in green. Her hair was long and flowing down in cascades, and flowers were woven into it like stars in the night sky. There was a melody around her, following her every step, and though Faramir could not comprehend it, it filled him with longing and love so strong, he cried harder only, gazing down at his fallen King.  _

_ Elessar opened his eyes at that moment, and the Prince’s surprise was great when he recognized his friend in them, not the coldness of Morgoth’s impenetrable shadows.  _ _   
_ _ “Aragorn,” he whispered, and the King smiled, before he drifted off again, his body becoming heavy and lifeless.  _

_ “Faramir…” A voice called, and he turned up his head, seeing not one but three people standing before him. There were two males also, one with his clothes made of leather and his hair like fire, the other dressed in nets and sea shells, with hair dark and dripping wet. It was in that moment that Faramir understood that the Valar were before him, and their light had hallowed the ground around them. Their song mingled together, bringing forth memories of the sea and of forest hunts, of long walks and beautiful springs. And yet, the Prince could not see any of that, for the fear for his King was too great. He bowed his head but, unwilling to let go of Aragorn, he remained seated on the grass and watched the Valar come closer.  _

_ “Do not cry, Faramir, son of Denethor,” the Lady said, and Faramir recognized Yavanna by her gentle smile. “You have helped us greatly, and although the cost had been great and will grieve many, this day will be the marking of a better world.”  _

_ At a loss of words, the Prince remained as he was, uncomprehending in what was being said to him. Then another of the Valar stepped forward, and crouched down, placing his hand on Faramir’s shoulder, and a light was in his touch.  _ _   
_ _ “I am Ulmo, King of the Seas, and I want to thank you for aiding us. We have chased Morgoth and tried to eliminate him for a long time, but our perils were great and the enemy was strong and cunning. He shall be now no more, and you should remember this day with pride.”  _

_ Then the last one stepped forth, and in his mantle and in his keen eyes, Faramir recognized Oromë, the Huntsman, and he cried harder, shaking his head in denial when the Valar started to thank him also, for nothing was more important to him than Elessar, and even squashing the evil of Morgoth could not console his heart.  _

_ At last, when he felt that no more tears were there to be shared, when he felt hollow and cold, Yavanna spoke to him.  _ _   
_ _ “The King of Gondor departed, but there shadow still dwells in his heart. We shall put it out to let him rest, for his spirit wanders the Halls of Mandos, our brother, and it will not depart until the deed is done.”  _

_ And Faramir felt himself being lifted and put to his feet, and when he turned around, Oromë and Ulmo were bent over Aragorn’s body, and their power was so bright it blinded the Prince for a moment. He turned away, looking at the Lady, lost in his way and in the world. But she smiled at him, albeit the smile was sad.  _ _   
_ _ “You shall leave now, Faramir. Go back to the White City and bring them the tidings of their King. Tell them of his love for them and of the beauty of his soul.”  _ _   
_ _ “My Lady!” Faramir said at last, startling himself into a long silence, so changed his voice sounded to his own ears. _

_ Yavanna waited for a time, then nodded at him to continue.  _ _   
_ _ “Speak freely, Prince.”  _ _   
_ _ “My lady…” he started once again, and his words came not from his mind, but from his heart, for nobody would dare to question the Valar. “I cannot leave him here, not knowing what will happen. I loved him and I love him still, and if I cannot have him back, let me at least carry his body, for I cannot bear to part with him so soon.”  _

_ “Three days.” Oromë said from behind him, and his voice sounded strained. Faramir felt a chill run up his spine, a dread telling of their fight with Morgoth’s shadow. “Let three days pass and come back here, and the body of your King shall await you.”  _

_ To that, Faramir nodded, not daring to look back. He knew not whether he would be frightened upon seeing the scene or whether his heart would break for good.  _

_ The Lady raised her hand and Hasufel appeared from between the trees, and Faramir went to him as if an invisible power pushed him forward. He climbed into the saddle and rode off, finding Brego not long after.  _

  
  


-&-

When Faramir woke on the next day, the place next to him had already been vacated. The Prince sighed, running his hand reverently over the cooled sheets, then got up. With shuffling feet, pulling a light robe over his sleeping shirt, he wandered into the study. As expected, Aragorn was already there, elbows-deep in writing, and Faramir couldn’t help the light chuckle that escaped him.    
“To think that they call  _ me _ a bookworm!” He teased, smirking when the King startled and dropped his quill. Aragorn looked up at him, blinked a few times, then smiled, waving a hand over the desk.    
“‘Tis not a book, Faramir, therefore I shall not usurp your honorable title,” he answered, merriment twinkling in his eyes. Faramir scoffed.    
“Half of what resides in the library doesn’t belong to the  _ books _ category. Now, tell me,” he inquired, putting his hands on his hips, his expression expectant. “What are you writing?” 

The King sighed, knowing well that his friend and lover would get whatever answers he wanted. Faramir was a master of words and absurdly good at using them. He knew well how to navigate court disputes and so, making his King do what he wished was no hardship for him. Not that Aragorn saw any fault in that - on the contrary, it was always a pleasure to follow his Prince. This matter, though…    
“I wished for it to be a gift,” Elessar muttered. “The day of your birth is coming, and I wanted to present it to you during the feast.” The explanation was simple enough, and Aragorn did not feel the need to add that he would have the text copied into every tome of the History of Gondor they possessed, just so there was never any doubt as to who the most important person in this realm was. 

Faramir frowned, then shook his head in something akin to disapproval.    
“I do not want you working yourself into an early grave on my account, and if the gift keeps you from our bed at night also, I do not want it,” he stated quietly. The words alone were harsh but the tone in which they had been said soothed over any hurt Aragorn could have felt.There was some kind of longing in Faramir’s voice, the same longing he had gifted the King with since the first moment they had met. It was always there, the unending love they felt for each other, vibrant like the Song of the Valar themselves, hiding in every small gesture and the tiniest of looks. 

It was there, floating in Faramir’s voice, mingling with the words and filling Aragorn with ethereal warmth that only his lover could bring in him. With a sigh, the King grasped the topmost parchment and handed it over. 

-&-

_ The Prince rode on, until at last his path disappeared between tall bushes and small trees. When the horses refused to step forward, he climbed down from his saddle and attempted to brave the wild forest on foot, but this, too, proved to be impossible. Changing the direction, Faramir went towards a less dense part of the woods, quickly happening upon a small stream lined with tall rocks. Tying the horses to a young sapling of a silver pine, he sat down on one of the moss-covered boulders and wept still, for his heart was heavy even if it felt empty.  _

_ For long hours he remained, gazing unseeing into the water tumbling at his feet, following its course absentmindedly. As the day turned to night and then to day again, the Prince discovered that he could not return to Minas Tirith without his King, nor without his body. As the Steward of Gondor he had his obligations which called to him to never leave their King. But Aragorn had been more than his liege to Faramir, even if that fact had been admitted only in the privacy of his own heart and mind, and so, he could not part with him more than he could part with his own arm or leg. In truth, it would have been easier for the Prince to cut off his own limb than to watch his liege die or leave him alone in a dark forest, alive or not.  _

_ Thus, as the first rays of Anor penetrated the dark, Faramir had made up his mind. He untied the horses and turned back, finding his way through the dense undergrowth and to the little clearing on which he knew he would find Elessar.  _

_ The horses were of swift hooves and soon, the lush green of the grass welcomed the Prince. He climbed down hurriedly upon seeing the dark shape of his King lying lifeless in the middle of the meadow, but paused when he took notice of the three ethereal beings still present. Yavanna turned to him as if she sensed his approach.  _ _   
_ _ “Come, Prince. Come and tell me why you have disregarded our orders to return to Minas Tirith.”  _

_ “My Lady!” Faramir said, bowing low and closing his eyes briefly, for the brilliance of her visage overwhelmed him for a moment.  _ _   
_ _ “Have you not heard our order?” Oromë asked, turning to him also. Faramir shook his head, mindful now that he had been told to go back to the White City.  _ _   
_ _ “My Lords… I have heard your orders and I have understood them.” He explained hurriedly, hoping to excuse his transgression.  _ _   
_ _ “Why do you still stand here then? Are you unafraid of our powers?” Ulmo asked, but there was no threat in his voice, just curiosity which reminded Faramir of his brother.  _

_ “I am afraid,” the Prince said, stepping forward slowly, measuring his steps with the trickling of water in the nearby stream, loud in the silence around them. “But my fear of you is nothing compared to the grief of losing the one I love. If you want to send me away again, I shall go by your hand only, for my heart wants to remain here, even if my mind argues my foolishness.”  _

_ The Valar fell silent for a few long moments, their eyes judging the young man in front of them. And then, when hope started to leave Faramir, Yavanna spoke, and her voice was like blooming flowers.  _ _   
_ _ “Here stands a mortal who commands the Song, and his voice shall be heard. Isn’t he what we’ve been missing?” She asked aloud, and the Prince knew that he was not the recipient of her question. Indeed, a heartbeat passed, and Ulmo spoke, watching Faramir with an unreadable expression.  _ _   
_ _ “This remains to be seen, but let it not be said that I have abandoned Humans in time of need after millenia of watching them.”  _

_ So it came to pass that Faramir was ordered to step forward and laid out on the grass. The Valar explained little to him, before giving him one task only: to call his love to him. With that, Ulmo put a hand on Faramir’s forehead, and the next thing the Prince could remember was a dream-like land filled with stone and sparse trees among which he stood.  _

_ He looked around, surprised to find himself alone, for he had expected the Valar to be there with him. It was not so, however, and Faramir moved forward, stepping carefully, hoping to decipher the cryptic message the Powers had given to him.  _

_ Just when he started down a narrow, cobblestone path, so odd in this landscape filled with wild nature only, a dark shape caught his attention. A man was seated with his back to him, resting on one of the boulders, and Faramir felt keenly his grief again, remembering his own tears upon the stream the previous night. He marched forward, intent on discovering who the man was, when the stranger turned his head around and in his face Faramir recognized his King.  _

_ He broke into a run, his feet disturbing the dust collected on the stony path, pushing a small cloud to raise after him, but Faramir paid it no heed. He stopped only when he was directly in front of Elessar, then fell to his knees and took his King’s hand between his own trembling fingers.  _ _   
_ _ “Aragorn!” He cried, his vision blurring unexpectedly. “Elessar! My King!”  _

_ The man watched him in silence for a long moment, until his confusion cleared and his eyes filled with understanding.  _ _   
_ _ “Faramir!” He said, and to Faramir his voice was sweet like the finest honey. The Prince bowed his head and moved closer, wrapping his arms securely around his King, afraid the vision was just a concoction of his troubled mind and thus would vanish unexpectedly. But Elessar remained, his own arms holding Faramir in turn.  _

_ “How are you here? You do not belong here!” Aragorn cried, and Faramir held on tighter, for finally he understood what the place was. They were in the Halls of Mandos, or near to them enough that Elessar was still here, lonely and wandering, just like the Valar had said.  _ _   
_ _ “You do not belong here either.” He stated, and his tone brought to mind numerous disputes he had dealt with during his reign in Ithilien. “Come back with me, my King! Come back and live, for your people await you!”  _

_ “My people! They shall have better lives without me! I have gazed into the void and the void has gazed back. I have brought them desolation and death! What is there to come back to?” Aragorn asked, pulling away and getting up, eager to put some distance between them. He was shaky like a leaf and the very ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble. Faramir followed him swiftly, though, because he was not ready to give up the fight.  _ _   
_ _ “Your people love you and were worried for you! Life and happiness shall grow again in Gondor, and Minas Tirith shall see many fine days yet!”  _ _   
_ _ “Aye, that may be, but not with this King…” Aragorn muttered, and his voice was like a shadow.  _

_ “My people shall have a beautiful future and peace in their lives… but what is there for me to come back to?” Elessar asked. “What awaits me but facing my own deeds and transgressions? Even my wife has left because of the darkness I have let into our home!”  _

_ At this, Faramir startled, for he did not know about the Queen’s departure from the realm. The news had not reached him through any messengers, and the letters they had exchanged with the King before they, too, had ceased, had spoken nothing of the matter.  _

_ He looked at Elessar, took in the desolation within the man that his gift allowed him to see clearly, then stepped forward, until he could wrap his arms around his King.  _ _   
_ _ “I knew not about Arwen’s departure, but I know of this: your people love you, and they shall be grateful to have you back with them. If you wish to ignore that, it is your right to do so, as is mine to stay here forever with you.”  _

_ Hearing the truth in Faramir’s voice, knowing the determination from the tone of it, Aragorn sighed, then turned around.  _ _   
_ _ “How can you ask this of me? I might have been under Morgoth’s spells but I was not deaf. I have heard about Eowyn and her visits to Ithilien. Do not give this old fool any false hopes, just to ruin them when you decide on a wife.”  _

_ There was such sadness in Elessar’s eyes that they looked like the void in the depths of the Great Sea. Moved to his core, Faramir decided to act, for he knew that only actions would change his King’s mind.  _ _   
_ _ “A wife has never been something I wished for, my King, and what I decide on is you,” the Prince said, grabbing his King and pulling him in for a kiss.  _

_ The world shook and the sky disappeared, and in a blink of an eye that could have been eternity or just a heartbeat, Faramir found himself on the ground among the lush grass, three brilliant faces looking down at him. A hasty look cast around brought Aragorn lying a couple of feet away from him, and the Prince itched to move closer and check whether the body was breathing at all. He stuck his gaze hoping to see his King moving in whatever way, but Yavanna spoke to him, and he was forced to pay attention.  _

_ “You have done something no mortal man has done before, Faramir the Loving,” she said, smiling brightly. Oromë spoke also, though his voice held much reverence, as its owner nodded appreciatively.  _ _   
_ _ “Your King shall live and his life will be long. You have brought him back with your love, Faramir the Great, and for this brave deed, for your courage against Morgoth and your undying loyalty, you and your King shall join us in Valinor after your time here is done. For now, though, live it to the fullest, for there are many happy years in store for you yet.”  _

_ Ulmo did not speak a word, and none of his two companions added anything else. With smiles and a shimmering glow, they departed, seemingly vanishing into thin air. With a weary sigh, Faramir turned and got to his knees, then crawled across the green grass to where his King lay.  _ _   
_ _ “Aragorn?” He asked, so softly that a reckless breeze blowing by would be like a howl in comparison. But Elessar heard him and opened his eyes slowly, a smile appearing upon his face when his gaze landed on the Prince.  _ _   
_ _ “You called me. I come.”  _

-&-

When Faramir was done reading, he lowered the hand holding the parchment, but he did not raise his gaze to his King. Aragorn frowned, then stood up hurriedly when he saw tears glistening on his Prince’s cheeks.    
“Oh Faramir!” He murmured, his arms enveloping his lover in a firm embrace. Aragorn could feel his body shaking and he tightened his hold, burying his face in Faramir’s neck. “I am sorry. By the Valar! It was not my intention to make you cry…” he whispered, kissing the soft skin right above the collar of Faramir’s nightshirt. But the Prince shook his head slightly.    
“You did nothing wrong… I simply… I do not think my involvement has had such an impact on this whole endeavour.”    
“Such an…  _ Mir!” _ Aragorn sounded scandalized when he drew back to look at him. “If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have been standing here now.  _ Blast it! _ The whole of Gondor might not have been standing anymore! Morgoth would have won and he would have destroyed the whole of Middle-earth!” 

Sighing, Aragorn drew him in again, this time kissing his forehead gently, taking the parchment out of Faramir’s hand and lying it back on the desk.    
“Come, let us lounge in bed for a bit… the morning is still early and we are not expected till afternoon.” 

And with that, he led them back to the bedchamber, pushing Faramir into the nest of soft sheets and pillows, throwing a blanket over them. Once they were curled up comfortably, Faramir spoke again.    
“I am sorry… You did nothing wrong, ‘tis just… The time you wrote about had been difficult, and I am still.. Emotional about it. A lot more than is wise, apparently.”    
“Shh… it’s alright, dear heart. This is why I wanted it written down. Our memory will fade, and I want to remember it and have it remembered for long,” the King explained, leaning in for a kiss. 

When he pulled back, Faramir was smiling at him softly, and in that small curl of lips there lay a whole realm of love.    
“Your descriptions were very accurate… how did you know all that?” The Prince inquired, curiosity written all over his face. Aragorn shrugged, lying back on his pillow, one hand wrapping itself around Faramir’s.    
“When I was wandering, I experienced…  _ dreams, _ you can call them,  _ visions, _ if you wish. I saw you in them, riding through the forest, sitting over the stream… It made me sad to see you so.”    
“Aye, I was, for I was without you.” 

Suddenly, Faramir grew serious and his voice hardened.    
“Promise me you will never look into the Palantir again.”   
“I promise. I ordered Beregond to bury it somewhere around Rath Dínen. He vowed to find it a nice cave and then seal it with heavy stones. Nobody shall ever gaze into it again,” Aragorn assured, to which Faramir nodded.    
“That is for the better. And if you ever miss the lands you could see through it-”    
“Then we can take Brego and Hasufel and ride out to visit them,” the King finished, grinning when Faramir answered with a very unenthusiastic groan.    
“Just not in the wee hours in the morning!” 

Laughter was his only answer, as Aragorn buried his face in Faramir’s neck, his arms wrapping securely around his Prince’s waist.    
“I shall have this tale copied and put into the History of Gondor for your birthday,” he added, to which Faramir chuckled.    
“You don’t have to. I have my best gift right here,” the Prince replied, turning to his side and kissing him soundly. 

In the end, the tale of the brave Prince ended up in Faramir’s private library, and there it waited for the right moment to be published. It would not come for a long while, for the Prince and the King found themselves too occupied with work to give it any attention, and when they had some time off, they preferred to spend it together. It would be made public only after their departure to Valinor, which was a long way from then, and only after many years spent on living happily with each other. 


End file.
